


where you go when you're gone

by indigostohelit



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Comfort, Dirty Talk, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: Javi eats dinner alone. The diner is barely half-full; it's been a warm, muggy day, clearing only now into some semblance of coolness, and most of the city is huddling indoors, under awnings, beside their fans, away from the terrible spill of body heat. The bartender pours him whiskey, silent, and disappears. He has a whole swathe of the bar to himself, and his drink to himself, too.He looks at the glass for a while.“Welcome back to Colombia,” he says aloud, in English. Then he drinks it down, and stands. He has an appointment to keep.
Relationships: Hélmer "Pacho" Herrera/Javier Peña
Comments: 10
Kudos: 111





	where you go when you're gone

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [daybreak and the morning light to come](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224575), but it isn't a sequel, and you don't need to read one to understand the other; the only relevant facts are that Javi and Pacho have been sleeping together since Carrillo died and los Pepes were formed, and that Javi was sleeping with Carrillo before that. This takes place in early Season 3 just after Javi's return to Colombia, and diverges from the "daybreak" canon from there.
> 
> Title from "Old Ways" by The Novel Ideas. All dialogue is "canonically" in Spanish unless otherwise mentioned or Steve; characters mentioned are based on the Narcos TV show, and not on any historical persons living or dead; love you, Austin and Michele. This draft was called "not responsible social distancing.doc", which should give you an idea of basically where it came from, like, emotionally. I hope you all are staying safe and doing well.

The phone buzzes, twice, and then clicks. “Hello?” says a drawl in English, a little annoyed.

“Sorry,” says Javi, “fuck, sorry, you’re an hour ahead, I didn’t think. Are you at dinner? I’ll call back—”

“Javi, is that you?” says the voice. “No, Jesus—” There’s a muffled thump, and faint, inaudible conversation; and then the soft and welcome crackle of Steve Murphy’s breathing, into the other end of the telephone line. “Dinner was more or less over already,” he says. “It’s no big deal. What’s going on?”

Javi hesitates, staring at the dim blue rectangle of his locked office door. Of all the dumbfuck impulses he's acted on in the last year, this is one of the strangest. DEA money down the drain on a long-distance phone call, and he doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

“You’re doing all right?” he says. “Connie, and—the kid?”

“What, us?” says Steve, bewildered. “Sure, we’re fine. You’re okay? You’re not—” A brief crackle. “You’re not—in trouble, or—”

“No,” says Javi, and then, “Not—real trouble. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. Go back to dinner. Tell Connie I said hi.”

He doesn’t hang up, though. On the other end of the line, neither does Steve; Javi can hear him, very faintly, the soft white hiss of noise that proves he’s alive.

“Is it a secure line?” Steve says, after a while.

If it isn’t, Javi’s fucked for more reasons than this. “Sure,” he says.

“Is this about,” says Steve, and pauses for some time. “Javi, is it about him?”

Javi considers, briefly, pretending he doesn’t know what Steve is talking about.

“No,” he says, eventually. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I know it’s been a year,” says Steve softly.

It has, and it hasn’t. “I know,” says Javi. “I think—” He ought to turn the lamp on; his office is all shadows, pooling blue in the corners, spiderwebbed up the walls. He thought? He doesn’t know what he thought.

“I just felt,” he says, “I just wanted to talk to you. I just felt like you were a long way away.”

Steve is quiet for a while. Then he says, too kindly: “Javi, I am.”

“I know,” says Javi. “I told you to go back to dinner. It’s all right.”

“Okay,” says Steve. “So it’s all right. If you say so.” There’s another crackle; then he says, “Javi, you call me any time.”

Javi doesn't reply. After a while, the line clicks.

He eats dinner alone. The diner is barely half-full; it's been a warm, muggy day, clearing only now into some semblance of coolness, and most of the city is huddling indoors, under awnings, beside their fans, away from the terrible spill of body heat. The bartender pours him whiskey, silent, and disappears. He has a whole swathe of the bar to himself, and his drink to himself, too.

He looks at the glass for a while.

“Welcome back,” he says aloud, in English. Then he drinks it down, and stands. He has an appointment to keep.

It's not often that Herrera meets him at his own front door. He's here tonight, though, leaning against the frame, his hands in his pockets, dressed in some button-up deep blue and patterned in roses, silhouetted in the golden light spilling down the drive from the house behind him; he's watching Peña grow nearer with an interest he isn't bothering to hide. There's a certain headiness to being the center of Herrera's attention; like swimming at the edge of a riptide.

He reaches the bottom of the steps. Herrera's shirt is made of velvet, he can see now, and the copper of his eyes is hardly visible to Peña in the shadows. He's smiling, a little, more eyes than mouth.

“How nice to see you again,” he says.

“You sound surprised,” says Peña, dry.

“Do I?” says Herrera. “My apologies.”

It's a nice night: dry, for once, and warm. They cross Herrera's patio, the tile warm beneath them, the cool shivering blue of the swimming pool throwing spots over the walls. Above, the stars are scattered like spilled salt. There's no moon.

In Herrera's bedroom, he strips without ceremony, and waits for Herrera to do the same before he kneels up onto the bed. There's lube on the bedside table; he uncaps it, settles himself over Herrera's body where it's spread there.

He lays a hand on Herrera's hip, and pauses. Herrera is looking up at him, dark-eyed and silent. He's never this silent. Peña doesn't quite know what to say. It's not as if conversation is what he's here for; not that he and Herrera have ever avoided it, but he doesn't expect—what, nicety? Courtesy? Charm? If Herrera were trying to charm him, he'd ask for the catch. There's no catch in silence that Peña knows; or none that he knows yet.

He strokes down Herrera's thigh, waits for Herrera to his hips, and presses a finger in. He certainly knows Herrera's body well enough, even after weeks and months. He knows how he ought to move with Herrera, for Herrera; he's done it a hundred times before. This is nothing new.

There's nothing on Herrera's face—a little discomfort, maybe. Peña slows, works his fingers more carefully. Herrera rolls his lower lip between his teeth, and then lets it go, and breathes out. His eyes are blank. Peña knows he isn't doing anything wrong. He knows.

God, even _he_ isn't hard.

“Stop,” says Herrera, eventually.

Peña stops. “I can go faster,” he says, though he knows how pointless it is.

Herrera looks at him. Peña pulls his fingers out and sits back on the bed. Herrera's face is still cool and calm. Disinterested, maybe, though from anyone else in his position Javi would dismiss the thought.

“What do you want me to do?” he says.

“Agent Peña,” says Herrera, “may I ask you a question?”

“You can ask,” says Peña, after a while. Herrera doesn’t often straightforwardly ask for permission. He can’t imagine it signifies anything good.

Herrera sits forward on the bed. “Please don't take this as an insult,” he says. “I don't mean it to be.” His eyes flicker shut, briefly. “Agent Peña,” he says, “why are you here?”

Peña stares. “Should I be somewhere else?” he says.

“I don’t know,” says Herrera. “Should you?”

“What does that mean?” says Peña blankly.

Herrera's mouth quirks, a strange and curious expression of concentration. “You weren't,” he says, “for some time. You were sent to the United States.”

“Yeah,” says Peña. “So?”

Herrera looks at him.

“You came back,” he says.

Peña shrugs, discomfited. “Sure,” he says.

“No,” says Herrera. “Not quite. Steve Murphy didn’t.”

Peña laughs, without humor. “You know Steve has a family.”

“So do you,” says Herrera. “Don’t you?”

Peña sits back, trying to keep his face still. This is forbidden ground. Herrera’s mentioned whores, before, mentioned Steve, even come close to—but he’s never, ever asked about his father. Peña’s never asked about his. Honor among thieves.

“No,” he says, eventually. “No wife. You know that.”

Herrera’s mouth moves a little. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

And he leans forward, and curls a hand around the back of Peña’s neck, and kisses him, slow and careful. Peña’s startled, at first, but not too startled to kiss back; he leans in, lets Herrera guide him, patient, methodical.

Herrera’s weight is on his. Peña goes back to one elbow, easy. Herrera’s in his lap, nearly, settling over him; his hands are stroking down Peña’s sides, and Peña can feel himself getting hard again. He lifts his hips, anticipatory, and Herrera slides one hand under them, to cup his ass.

Peña stops, and opens his eyes. Herrera is looking down at him. His face is uncharacteristically serious.

“If you want that,” he says, “I’ll make it good for you.”

For a moment, Peña can’t move. Herrera never has, with him. Every other thing, they’ve managed, a few new even to Peña; but Herrera’s never done this. The first night they’d met, almost a year ago now, when Peña had come to him bleary and half-mad and running straight into the arms of los Castaños and Don Berna and whatever other murderer would have him—that night, Peña drunk on exhaustion and incomprehension and awful radio silence, Herrera had for a moment pressed him over a table, and Peña had thought—but Herrera had looked into his face and seen something there. Peña still doesn’t know what. And Herrera had pulled away; and that night he hadn’t looked into Peña’s eyes again.

He’s looking in Peña’s eyes now. Peña breathes in, breathes out. Then he grinds his hips up against Herrera, deliberately, and spreads his legs.

Herrera's breath hisses out. “All right,” he says, almost to himself. “All right,” and he lets go of Peña, and bends over to the bedside table.

The first finger is—a shock. Everyone else Peña’s slept with since they started this has been a woman; not that none of them have offered, but he’s never said yes. No one has done this to him for a long time. No one has done this to him for a little over a year. He closes his eyes and tries to let himself go loose; Herrera is slow, deliberate, and when the second finger goes in he moves with purpose, curls his fingers, and Peña groans aloud.

“Yes?” says Herrera, quiet and interested.

Peña nods. He can see Herrera smile to himself, white and pleased, and he moves inside Peña again, steadily. Peña’s mouth falls open.

“God,” he says, hoarse.

“Yes,” says Herrera softly. A third finger, now—Peña had expected it to be difficult, but it’s becoming so easy, too easy, to let his head fall back and let his vision blur and relax into it, into whatever Herrera is doing to him, whatever Herrera wants to do to him. Herrera’s other hand is on his shoulder—more for balance than anything else, Peña thinks, but it’s pressing him into the bed, hard, and he shifts his arm under it, not trying to get away, just trying to feel Herrera’s skin on his, trying to feel Herrera touching him, and then Herrera’s fingers move again and he can’t think of anything at all.

“I’m ready,” he manages, when he has his voice back, “you can—”

“I know,” says Herrera, “I know I can,” but he doesn’t shift. The only part of him moving is his fingers, over and over again inside Peña, and Peña doesn’t want—he wants Herrera to—he tries to sit up, but Herrera looks up, sudden, and presses him down into the bed, deliberately this time.

The noise that comes out of Peña’s throat hurts. Herrera laughs, soft and disbelieving, and bends to press his mouth to Peña’s.

“Just wait,” he says. “Just one second,” and then the fingers are gone, and Peña spreads his legs, unconscious, and clutches at Herrera’s shoulders, and Herrera presses into him, inch by inch. He whispers something—praise or a curse, Peña doesn’t know—and stills.

“Come on,” says Peña.

“I told you,” says Herrera, breathless, and then he fucks into Peña, slow and dirty, and Peña throws his head back and digs his teeth into his lower lip. Herrera moves again—and again—slow and steady, and Peña tries to talk, to tell him _more_ , but he can’t say anything.

He tries to cant his hips up, to meet Herrera’s rhythm. It’s so hard to think. He doesn't want to think. He wants to take it, and keep taking it. He digs his nails into Herrera’s back, trying to make him understand, and Herrera laughs, low and warm, and kisses him.

“Oh,” he says. His breath is hot against Peña’s skin. “Oh, you did need this, didn’t you.”

Peña says nothing, only blindly turns his head. He doesn’t realize he’s shut his eyes, but a moment later, Herrera’s other hand is on his face, his thumb at the corner of Peña’s eye.

“No,” he says. “No, I want to look at you.”

Peña makes some low and awful noise, he doesn’t know what. He blinks open to Herrera’s face above his, lips bitten dark, pupils blown, he can’t imagine how his own face looks—he can’t imagine anything—Herrera inside him, all around him, hot and moving, his hand on Peña’s neck, now, his thumb at the corner of Peña’s jaw. His breath is hard and heavy, his nails digging into Peña’s shoulder.

“You want it?” he murmurs.

Peña wants to close his eyes again. He can’t. Herrera told him not to. He mouths something—English or nonsense, he doesn’t know—Herrera says, “Shh,” and, “I know, cariño. I know,” and kisses him aimlessly, the corner of his mouth, his temple, his jaw. “Don’t worry. I have you. You’ll get it whenever you need it. You don’t worry at all, sweetheart, I’ll give it to you, I’m here.”

All Peña can do is be touched, all Peña can do is want to be touched. He wants Herrera inside him—Herrera’s already inside him—he wants more, wants more and more. “I want,” he scrapes out, “I want,” and Herrera groans, low, fucks him hard, harder.

“I know,” he murmurs, “me too, shh, querido, I want you, too.”

His hand is over Peña’s cock, moving slick and hot. Peña bucks up into it, helpless, trying not to close his eyes.

He fails, in the end.

Herrera keeps fucking him, after, riding that line of too-much too-soon, narrow and perfect. Peña’s consciousness, fled into nothing and only now beginning to ease back through his limbs and his brain and his heart, stutters; he breathes through it, through it, and finally Herrera speeds up and makes a low noise in the back of his throat, and stops, and pulls away.

Peña doesn't know how long it is before he opens his eyes again. Herrera is silent beside him; Peña can see his chest rising and falling, and nothing more.

He sits up. Herrera is a long line of loose muscle, lying utterly still. His face is rarely peaceful, but it’s peaceful now. Peña looks at it—the fine long lashes, the hair falling loose over the forehead, how the lines around his mouth and his eyes smooth out into softness—and looks away.

“Okay,” he says.

Herrera’s eyes flicker open. “Okay?” he says. His voice is rough with sleep.

“Okay,” says Peña, and struggles upright. It’s like moving through water. The bedsheets are tangled around him; he pushes himself free, bare legs over the edge of the bed, feet on the cold wooden floor. “I’ll see you around.”

Herrera sits up, too, very suddenly. Peña nearly flinches. Herrera only watches him move across the bedroom, though: shirt, pants, shoes. His face is utterly blank.

When Peña kneels to tie his shoes, he says, “You won’t.”

Peña stops. “I won’t?” he says.

“I’m leaving the country,” says Herrera, without inflection.

Javi lets go of his shoelace and pushes himself to his feet to stare at Herrera. Herrera stares back, unmoving. He’s more of an outline in the dim light than a face, visible only where the whiteness of the bedsheets stops.

“For how long?” says Peña.

Herrera shrugs a shoulder; the black line of his mouth moves, a little. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Peña repeats.

Herrera looks at him a while, his head on his side. Then he says, “If I knew, should I tell you?”

Peña opens his mouth, and closes it again. They haven’t, since los Pepes disbanded, talked about Escobar; not about the DEA. No word to Javi’s office from Don Berna, or from Navegante. The Miami Herald, and Bill Stechner, have put paid to all of them. He shouldn't be surprised to hear Herrera ask the question. He shouldn't be surprised at all.

“But you will be back,” he says. It comes out rough, and he doesn't know why.

Herrera shrugs again. “Yes,” he says. It doesn’t sound as if he means it to be convincing.

Peña kneels again, and puts his hands on his shoelaces, and makes himself go through the motions of tying them. He doesn’t know why he wants to ask Herrera where he’s going; Herrera won’t tell him. It’s not as if it matters, anyway. He’ll find out from his own sources, when he's back in the office. It doesn’t matter what Herrera wants to say to him, and what he wants to keep silent. It doesn’t matter at all.

“Okay,” he says.

Herrera makes a soft sound which might be a sigh. “Good night, Agent Peña,” he says.

“Good night,” says Peña.

At the doorframe, he hesitates. When he looks back, Herrera is watching him go, cool-eyed and still.

“Goodbye,” he says to Herrera.

Herrera says nothing. Peña steps into the hallway, and shuts the door.

It’s a long drive out of Cali. He used to feel, wending his way north, that the hills were hemming him in; now he only thinks sometimes that they're watching him. Not long ago, beside him in a little car in Laredo, his father had watched him in just that way. Not unkindly; not judging. Only quietly, and with thought.

Something catches his eye, on the side of the road; he slows. It’s a church, small and nearly colorless in the night. What caught his eye wasn’t the shape, but the light. It must be nearly eleven, but there’s a lamp flickering in one of the windows.

A priest; it must be. He doesn’t want to talk to a priest. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone—no one who wants to talk back, anyway. He stops the car.

The earth is pebbled and uncertain under his feet when he climbs out. As soon as he shuts the door behind him, the wind rises, dry and warm, stirring the dust to his knees, rubbing like a friendly cat.

Javi has the sudden, inexplicable thought that if he looked up, he would be able to pick out every star in the firmament. He thinks: if he looked up now—right now, without hesitating, without blinking—he would know them all by name.

The church isn’t locked; the peeling-painted wood is cool against his palm. It’s muscle memory, the old rituals: water basin, forehead, wallet, watch. The pews are empty, and the alcoves. He expects his footsteps to be loud, but they’re muffled, and his breathing, too. No noise of cars on the road outside; no noise of birds, or of whatever shuffling priest lives in the adjacent room. Only hush.

He slides into one of the pews, and runs his finger over the wood of the one in front. It comes away bare. This place is used often; or, this place is cared for, and cared for deeply. Maybe there's a difference.

It’s been a long time since he prayed to God for anything. He knows the words, though. He’s never forgotten them. Once he was a boy, in a church not very different from this, bored and restless in stiff clothes and slicked-down hair, dreaming of being anywhere else. One day he’ll be old; one day he’ll be dead; and even then, he will always have been that boy, small and alive and more than half-lonely.

 _I want you, too_ , Herrera had said.

He could say the words, if he wanted to. He could say anything.

He listens to the quiet, for a while.

His car is waiting for him on the side of the road. The engine coughs, and turns over, and hums under his feet. Javi glances behind him, ahead, and then turns the steering wheel all the way to the left, and feels the car curl around, easily, like an orange peel. The road ahead is bare and free.

Herrera’s mansion isn’t quite dark, either. Javi parks at the end of the drive, and watches the security guard at the door jerk upright, hesitate, and then disappear inside. A few minutes later, one of the window lights winks out, and the front door opens.

Javi gets out of the car. Herrera says nothing as he comes up the drive, and nothing as he climbs the steps; his face is as shuttered as a window.

“Agent Peña,” he says, when Javi finally reaches him.

Javi looks at him for a few moments.

“Can I stay the night?” he says.

Herrera’s face does something sharp and terrible. If Javi didn’t know better, he’d think it was unhappiness. If Javi knew better, he wouldn’t be here.

“I don’t know,” Herrera says, very softly. “Can you?”

Behind him, in the bushes, a bird calls. Javi breathes in, out.

“Sure,” he says. “Just for tonight.”

Pacho closes his eyes.

“All right,” he says, and offers Javi his hand. Javi takes it; it’s warm. He curls his thumb over Pacho’s, and interlaces their fingers, palm to palm, wrist touching wrist, and he steps inside, and lets the door close behind him.


End file.
